The rain now is that rain we associate as November rain in the Northwest. It has its own aspect, like no other. It is not a rain to be fucked with, and comes on hard and fouls up the roads,… Read More ›
Tom Waits
I love my liver when I eat my lover
Drinking beer in the morning in the kitchen cooking with a wife-beater and Tom Waits, finally found something the cat will eat that’s not decapitated, some calf’s liver in a yogurt sauce from a plastic packet mom adds olive oil… Read More ›
They scratched their names on the stones, in the trees
Dawn took the side of the bed my mom once slept in and that left me the side that was John’s. I’d sometimes look in on him sleeping before we flew back home, but wouldn’t wake him, it was easier… Read More ›
What we keep, who we are
I’ve broken through a membrane in our garage, the garage that’s bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in, where our kids can ride their bikes or scooters when there’s no cars and I’ve cleared the boxes to the side. The garage,… Read More ›
Open your heart to a map of the badlands
Peel drew a map on a cocktail napkin: a laundromat between Avenue A and Avenue B on the lower east side, New York. He said they sell it right there on the street, through a gate. I took a bus… Read More ›
The Waiting Room
Peel died of a heroin overdose in a cheap New York hotel, probably exactly what he wanted. I saved a letter he wrote in 1992, with his careful, shaky verse: instead of my name in the address line on the… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 